


Proud of This Pride

by athousandwinds



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-13
Updated: 2009-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A triptych depicting a proud man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud of This Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sonnet 151.

A great many things could be seen from the steps of the house of Caius Marcius, for it was high on Palatine Hill and overlooked the forum below. Menenius paused at the top of the stairs and made the mistake of looking down. The view would not have fazed a younger man, but Menenius looked away quickly for fear of dizziness.

"Careful," said Marcius from the open doorway. "These heights are exalted indeed."

"So I have seen," said Menenius. He wondered why Marcius had come to the door himself, rather than waiting for Menenius to be brought in to him, and wished he could think that it was because Marcius saw no need to stand on ceremony with an old family friend.

"I am impatient to know your business here," Marcius said, his voice cool and sharp; all wrong for the heat of the day. "And why in the middle of the day?" But Volumnia had brought up a good boy; even now he was ushering Menenius through the hall into the tablinum, where he snapped his fingers for wine.

"It is the matter of the grain," said Menenius, once seated. "It must be sold soon; or it shall rot and be of no use to anyone, patrician or pleb."

"So sell it," Marcius said with an aggravating shrug.

"I would it were that simple," said Menenius, feeling weary after only minutes of Marcius's company. He was the best of men: a great general, kind to his wife and more than respectful of his mother; one could not accuse him of not paying attention. In another man, that he was not politic would be a blessing; in Volumnia's son it was disastrous. Straightforward politicians so rarely got anything done. "You see, the people will not buy it at our price and we will not sell it at theirs. A compromise must be reached, of course, but I have Cominius on one side of me and Brutus and Sicinius on the other and none of them will sit together at table."

"Did you come here for a reason or merely to complain – ? Peace, old man, I see your purpose. I will tell you now that I am for Cominius." Marcius stretched his arms out, looking for all the world like a bored mountain lion.

"You fought side by side, but Nature does not declare that comrades in war must be so in peace," said Menenius, leaning forward.

"True, but, moreover, I agree with him. For how should the people starve? They have money enough to pay for the grape, certainly they have for your grain. They cavil and whine in the hope of paying a semuncia less, for their mean-hearted souls cling to every coin." Marcius had risen, and was pacing the length of the room; ten quick steps this way, turn, ten quicker steps that way. "Even in their own defence – !"

He stopped, as if the thought of it made him too angry to speak, and tapped his fingers on the painted wall. Volumnia had commissioned the mural done and paid for it, too, which Menenius would have thought beyond Marcius's pride. It showed Mars victorious over the Volsces, trampling on their leader's head; if one looked closely, and if one knew Marcius well, it was clear who had been taken as model for the god.

"Rome was lucky that the war ended quickly," Menenius said, but he could not decide whether to sound neutral or placatory and his voice wavered between the two. Marcius bit off a curse and said,

"A single denarius more could have won us a better peace."

"It would have taken more than that," said Menenius, dry. "Two, perhaps."

"I engaged in your politician's hyperbole," said Marcius, without a smile.

Menenius sighed. "They say it is the young who have the most compassion for the poor. They – supposedly – have not yet grown cynical."

"I am not young," said Caius Marcius, his jaw set like that of a stubborn child. "I never was."

"No," said Menenius, rising to take his leave. "That is true. You never were."

\---

"Did you ever run in the Lupercalia?" asked Aufidius once.

"No," said Marcius, looking up from the maps in surprise.

"I'm astonished," said Aufidius, more sarcastic than he intended. "I'm told it's quite an honour. It seems unlikely to me that you would not have been accorded it."

"I was not a priest of the Luperci," said Marcius, turning his attention back to the seven hills. Aufidius watched him carefully, for he was tracing their contours with an idle finger and his face was unreadable. "Why should I then run with them? I celebrated, of course."

"Of course," said Aufidius, and made sure that Marcius heard the mocking note beneath his voice. "Well, which god do you worship, if not Lupercus? Mars, I suppose." He himself paid more tribute to Mars than strictly necessary. It had worked, too, for here was Caius Marcius by his side.

"All of them, at the appropriate times," said Marcius. His tone was bland and uninterested; he would never give Aufidius the satisfaction of seeing him out of temper.

"We should fight again," Aufidius said, changing tack. "We haven't since Corioli."

"I was trying to kill you, then," said Marcius, his tone taking on some of the acidity used to incompetent subordinates and Aufidius's more recalcitrant superiors. "I would rather it didn't happen again."

"Afraid?" asked Aufidius, and felt the joy of a sudden flash of rage in Marcius's eyes. He had fought many others since Corioli, in battle and in the gymnasium, but Marcius had been the last to draw blood. He remembered the shock of it, of realising that he was injured, that he was _hurt_ , and the course of the shiver through his body. It hadn't been serious, but for days he had kept reaching up to touch the dressing, wanting to feel that exhilaration again.

Marcius was already storming out ahead of him, abandoning the maps and books of strategy. Aufidius followed, watching the shift of muscle beneath his tunic. Marcius was a rival to be feared, but the problem had always been Aufidius's desire for him as an ally. Any other man could have been removed some dark night, no matter how proficient with a weapon. Destroying Marcius was akin to destroying oneself.

"Let us begin," Marcius said, once they had grasped their swords. "Until one of us yields. One – "

Aufidius attacked on "two"; Marcius was ready for him, dodging, and he made a point of saying "three" before thrusting his own blade near to Aufidius's leg. Aufidius blocked it, chafing their swords close together before Marcius yanked himself away. He aimed his next blow for Aufidius's abdomen; it was parried and Marcius forced to fall back a step. Aufidius was panting lightly, not from exertion.

The fight continued in silence, for Aufidius was concentrating on the length of Marcius's sword and his hard blows; moreover, Marcius obviously did not want to speak. If he had, a gag wouldn't have stopped him, much less a mere sparring session. His face was set in a scowl and every strike Aufidius gave him was returned twice as brutal. Aufidius had been practising for this moment; perhaps, in between all that time spent arguing with the Senate, Marcius had, too. He was being driven back to the wall.

"You really are excellent," he said, with admiration unmixed with jealousy or rivalry or even anger.

"Yes," said Marcius, with such pure patrician arrogance that Aufidius almost choked on the resentment rushing back. At least half of it was irritation.

Finally, Aufidius found himself with his back against the wall and Marcius's sword pointed at his throat.

"You yield?" Marcius inquired. It truly was a question, too, which Aufidius couldn't help but find amusing.

"Yes, I yield," he answered, and when Marcius threw down his sword, he grabbed him by the cloth of his tunic and kissed him so hard he drew blood from his lip.

There was a long moment where Marcius tried to tilt him back, fighting for dominance, but they were of a height and it was pointless. His mouth was hot and wet and Aufidius was tangling his fingers in Marcius's hair to get a better grip when Marcius pulled back, breathing heavily.

"I won't play your woman," he said, his voice hoarser than Aufidius suspected he meant it to be.

"Who asked you to?" Aufidius retorted, and flinched at the flash of disappointment in Marcius's eyes. Marcius hadn't expected such easy mastery, but then Marcius didn't understand politics. If one gave in freely and by doing so achieved one's goals, why, who was then the true master? Or perhaps Marcius had wanted to play the woman after all. Aufidius put the thought away for another day.

"Marcius," he said, tracing the handsome features; over the high cheekbones, down the aquiline nose and over the aristocratic chin. "Let us begin."

\---

The first memory Coriolanus had was of his mother staring down his father.

"I'll not leave him to you women long," Father said. "He needs to be with boys of his own age."

"Give him to me until he's seven," said Mother, her gaze cold and regal; Volumnia Superbus. "I'll make him a greater man than you by far."

"I won't have him at a woman's skirts," said Father, his eyes narrowing. He was almost as good at obstinacy as Mother was, but not quite. In any case, Father had died soon after, not obstinate enough to hold onto life, and Coriolanus had not played with boys of his own age. He was too busy.

"The gods have a fate for everyone," said Mother. By then, he knew what his was.

When he had wanted time for contemplation, he sat on his steps and looked down at the forum, at the hustle and bustle of ordinary lives being wasted. The noise and the smell of the market had always disgusted him, but it was not until he returned from the wars the first time that it made him sick to his stomach. The ignorant and the petty people, to whom it didn't matter a jot if it were Menenius or Brutus or even Valeria who was consul, who didn't care if the wars were directed well, nor if there were corruption, so long as their bellies were gorged on grain and their leader spoke pretty words about it all.

Mother had always said, "Be honest, for men respect honest men" until the day had come when it was not so respectable to be honest, and she had said, "Lie". And she had not understood why he couldn't.

He could still see her from the edge of the camp; she had paused before the gates of the city. If he strained his ears, he might be able to hear the roar; but behind him was the murmur of the Volscian camp, drowning it out. Besides, they would be calling for the Marcii and Volumnia, not Coriolanus. In his disgrace she had found her honour; he wondered if that satisfied her. Probably it did.

He turned; the Volsces were striking camp, readying themselves to follow Aufidius back to Antium. There were explanations to be made to men not as weak and peevish as the Senate. If any man were to understand why, it would be Aufidius – but Coriolanus did not look to be understood, only to command the respect he deserved.

"Mount the tents on the carts," he called to a lieutenant, who scurried to do his bidding. "We must reach Antium by dark."


End file.
